


The Lady in Black

by Avia_Isadora



Series: Jauffre Trevelyan [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Mages (Dragon Age), Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:13:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22227685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avia_Isadora/pseuds/Avia_Isadora
Summary: Jauffre Trevelyan is one of the Aequitarian mages at the Conclave as a delegate.  He's never met the lady in black, though terrible events are about to throw them together.
Relationships: Cassandra Pentaghast/Male Trevelyan, Male Inquisitor/Cassandra Pentaghast, Regalyan D'Marcall/Cassandra Pentaghast
Series: Jauffre Trevelyan [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1599952
Kudos: 7





	The Lady in Black

The first time he saw her, he had no idea who she was, probably one of the few at the Conclave who didn’t. Jauffre Trevelyan, the First Enchanter of Ostwick, was passing through the outer courtyard the day before the Conclave was to begin, Elana of Stanwick and Bryce of Westfall with him.

“There’s Regalyan D’Marcall,” Elana said. “He’s hosting the reception for the Aequitarians tonight.”

“Do you suppose they’ll have wine?” Bryce asked.

“I should think quite a good one.” Jauffre raised a hand to the gentleman in question, not wishing to interrupt him discourteously. He was talking to a lady in black leathers who had her back to them. 

Regalyan D’Marcall raised a hand politely in return, a friendly nod accompanying it, though he did not break off his conversation. D’Marcall was a few years Jauffre’s junior, with collar length brown hair presently caught in two little braids at the sides while long in the back, each braid done about with gold. His sea-green robe trimmed in the same gold was both tasteful and very, very expensive. 

“He’s a duke’s son,” Elana said. “Hosting a reception is no trouble for him. It’s not on his Circle. He has his own means.”

“And generous with them too,” Jauffre said. He’d met D’Marcall before on several occasions. He was one of the leaders of the Aequitarian faction, a faction that Jauffre very much meant to cleave to. Ostwick was a small circle and not much by Orlesian standards, but he was its representative and he knew how he meant to vote. He hoped Elana and Bryce would see it the same way. It was time that mages stood as equals in the towers, and if anyone could charm, cajole and bribe their way to that outcome it was D’Marcall.

“Good wine then,” Bryce said.

The lady in black never turned, so he did not see her face.

The reception was upstairs in one of the better guest quarters at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, presumably down the hall from the rooms occupied by the Divine herself. There was good wine and a roast goose and venison roast in a blackberry glaze, plus all the cheeses and pâtes and sweets that one might desire. 

D’Marcall worked the room in a way that Jauffe envied. He attempted to be courtly and elegant, a silver fox in clothes that were tasteful if not expensive, but he lacked D’Marcall’s casual and genuine accessibility. He truly gave the impression of being friend to all the world. Certainly he was a friend to every mage there, even the ones he’d never met before. He and Jauffre shared a quick conversation by the buffet. Yes, the journey was comfortable, even in autumn. The passage over the Waking Sea had not been difficult. Yes, of course Jauffre intended to stick to the Aequitarian position. Absolutely he would support the Divine if she stuck her neck out for them. Assured of Jauffre’s votes, D’Marcall went on to the next delegate, wine glass in hand.

It was growing late when one of the junior enchanters stuck her head in looking distressed, and Jauffre and D’Marcall both went to the door. “What’s the matter?”

She shook her head. “Some of the apprentices out in the tent camp are drunk and are messing around and challenging one another. Can you shut it down before somebody wings a Templar with chain lightning and there’s hell to pay?”

“You’re the host,” Jauffre said to D’Marcall. “I’ll go get the apprentices to calm down.”

“Thank you,” D’Marcall said, and clapped Jauffre on the shoulder. “Have fun.” His eyes were laughing.

“I’m sure I will,” Jauffre said ruefully.

It was two hours past midnight before he was done. Many of the apprentices had never been to a great gathering before and somebody had gotten a keg, and six castings of barrier and five of dispel later, he got everyone back in their proper tents, nobody out in the woods doing anything they shouldn’t be, and nobody showing off with just a little fireball. He was cold, tired, and deeply annoyed. He would much rather have spent the evening schmoozing with his peers and practicing elegant graces with those who would appreciate them. Instead, he had spent it speaking sharply to other people’s apprentices and shutting down things that would have caused unfortunate incidents. 

Jauffre thought longingly of his bed in the Temple of Sacred Ashes. It wasn’t one of the nicest rooms, and he was sharing with two others, but he did rate a bed among the worthies. Unfortunately, going in now would wake everyone up and he wasn’t entirely certain that the apprentices wouldn’t be at it again the moment he turned his back, so he settled down to sleep in the tent of one of the most enthusiastic duelists. One blanket on the ground was not ideal. But it was only going to be four hours or so anyway.

Jauffre woke with a start as the bells rang. Four hours my ass! He’d slept until eight if the bells were signaling the opening of the conclave! The tent was empty except for him and his blanket and the clothes he’d worn to the reception the night before.   
He was late. He was so late. He should have been seated half an hour ago. He scrambled to his feet, running his hands through his hair, trying to shake the sleep from his eyes. The bells stopped, the sound of the choir beginning. The Conclave had convened. No time to go change clothes. He’d just have to wear the same ones. He was so late.

Jauffre practically sprinted through the courtyard and up the steps, then stopped. If he went in the main doors he’d have to parade down the aisle. By now the choir had given way to a woman’s voice, probably one of the Revered Mothers giving an opening benediction. And there would be Jauffre Trevelyan of Ostwick coming down the main aisle like a guilty schoolboy late for chapel to sit in the front right with the other Aequitarians. 

He grimaced. Maybe he could go in one of the side doors and slip into the galleries above. His empty seat would be less conspicuous than trotting in now. He could watch from the gallery until the first break, then go down and claim his seat.   
Quickly, he hurried around to one of the side doors and went upstairs. There were no guards on the stairs at this time of day. All of the worthies were assembled in Conclave. Surely one of the doors off this hall led to the galleries?

Jauffre was halfway down when he heard a woman cry out. “Help me! Somebody! Please help me!” She sounded like she was in mortal terror. It came from one of the doors on the side away from the gallery. “Help me!” she screamed again.

Jauffre shoved open the door. “What’s going on here?”

There were Grey Wardens and the Divine and some sort of creature and…. It was a split second. Something rolled across the floor toward him and he caught it by instinct. 

And the world changed.

The second time he saw the lady in black she was trying to kill him. Or at least threatening to maim him seriously. 

Shackled, he knelt in what was obviously the basement of a large building, possibly a Chantry crypt, his left hand crackling ominously with some kind of cool fire. 

“Tell me what you did!” she screamed, her beautiful face a study in rage. “How did you do this? How did you survive?”

“I don’t know,” Jauffre managed. It was true. He had no idea how he’d gotten there. He had been running late for the Conclave. He’d gone in one of the side doors. Everything after that was a blur.

She raised her hand as though she meant to strike him with her gauntlet, and he flinched back. “Tell me why I should not kill you now!”

Another woman pushed her away, physically steering her away from Jauffre. “Cassandra, no. We need him.”

Sister Nightingale, Jauffre’s sluggish mind responded. The Left Hand of the Divine. 

“He must explain why he did this,” the lady in black said. Her voice caught for just a second.

“He can’t explain when he’s dead,” Sister Nightingale replied reasonably. “Cassandra, let me do this.”

Cassandra. That would make her Seeker Pentaghast, the Right Hand of the Divine.

“What happened?” Jauffre asked.

“It is better if you see for yourself,” Cassandra said.

They took him upstairs, still shackled. They led him through the Chantry and out into the cold street, looking up at the bristling hole in the sky, green Fade-light pouring in among the boulders that had been drawn upward to the tear. It was amazing and horrifying. 

“They are dead,” Cassandra said. “Everyone who attended the Conclave. Everyone except you, Mage.”

“Dead?” It wasn’t possible. Surely not. Hundreds of people. Bryce. Elana. The Divine. Revered Mothers and Templars, mages and guards.

“Everyone who was in the building perished.” Her voice was perfectly even now. 

“The tent city?” The apprentices he was responsible for….

“Many who were outside the walls survived. But no one inside. We need to know what happened.”

“I told you, I don’t remember.” He had an excellent memory. He had things committed to heart. And yet there was nothing. He had run across the courtyard, stopped short of the main doors because the Conclave had started. He went around to the side doors and…. Nothing. 

Lightning flashed from the breach, the mark on his hand throbbing. It was incomprehensible. “All of those people….”

“Are dead.” Her voice was hard. “We go to the forward camp. It is possible that the mark on your hand is connected. It is possible you can help.”

“Of course I’ll help however I can,” Jauffre said. Elana. Bryce. Which apprentices had been outdoors? Which ones had survived?

Her eyes met his. “I can promise you a fair trial. Nothing more.”

The third time he saw her they’d fought their way across the valley together, taken a treacherous mountain path to get to the wreck of the Temple of Sacred Ashes, walked together among the charred bodies of their friends, and battled demons until he could stabilize the Fade Rift.

He sat on a crate in the camp where the tent city had been, among things salvaged by the survivors outside the walls. He was tired, more so than he had any right to be, and there were no answers. After a moment he realized the Seeker was sitting near him, probably prepared to kill him if he attempted to run. But he was no Anders, and this was none of his doing.

“I misjudged you,” she said abruptly.

“What?”

“You have done what you could. I do not know why you survived. If it was the Maker’s will….”

“Then why wasn’t it his will to save someone else?” Jauffre said. “To save the Divine. To do…” He broke off, shaking his head. So many people he had known, and true, many of them casually. People he had politicked with last night were today nothing but unidentifiable charred skeletons among the ruins. “I don’t know.”

“They say Andraste saved you.”

“I don’t know.” He looked at her. She was beautiful and cold as a steel blade, but the depth of hurt in her eyes went all the way to the bone. It kindled a slow anger in him. This shouldn’t be. Like the Blight, like the terrified children fleeing Darkspawn, like the empty eyes of the Tranquil, like the fear that spread all around them, blossoming like a shadowed flower to serve someone’s purpose…. There was that power in him, tamped down behind a smooth face and a genial exterior to soothe those so frightened of mages, and yet it was there, a slow burn that worked its way to the surface like magma. Forty years of being careful, since he called the lightning when he was nine, and yet it was still there. Harnessed, yes. Schooled. Honed to serve his will. And it was there, raw and bright and ready at his hand, dangerous as everyone feared.

“I promise I will do whatever I can to make it right,” Jauffre said.

The Seeker bent her head as though she did not trust her voice to answer, did not want him to see her face. And in that moment, bloodied and exhausted and grieved beyond hope, he felt his heart give a little lurch. If he failed, it would not be through want of trying.


End file.
